Dearest: The Prison Letters
by adamsforthought
Summary: Letters from the Anna-Bates prison correspondence in S3. Anna is optimistic and cheerful, with her usual honesty and humor, while Bates is the romantic brooder, though not without his own humor. Letters begin early in 03x01.
1. Anna - My Dear Mr Bates

**A/N: Prompted by terriejane on Tumblr, I'm trying my hand at Anna and Bates's prison correspondence in S3. I love letter correspondences in general. My absolute favorite couple of all time are the historical couple John &amp; Abigail Adams, with their 1,100 letters over 54 years of a beautiful marriage.**

**My goal here was to write with Anna's characteristic humor and optimism. I've also used dashes and parentheses to convey her chatty, lively nature. (If I try my hand at Bates in the future, I'll have to puzzle a bit over his style.) If you notice some continuity errors, anachronisms, and other flaws, I apologize; my focus was mostly on portraying Anna correctly. Feel free to comment with suggestions! Enjoy!**

**-Adams**

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My Dear Mr. Bates,

Mrs. Hughes sends her warmest regards, as does Mr. Carson, Daisy, His Lordship, Lady Mary, etc. Nearly everyone here thinks and talks of you fondly — I won't pretend to speak for the two devil incarnates Th. and O'B — and your absence is keenly felt. Though of course there's one in particular who pines for you day and night, at every possible moment — can you guess who it might be? You've guessed it: it's Isis.

As for me, you needn't worry too much — though I know you will — I'm so preoccupied with composing letters to you in my mind that I often feel as though you are here with me still. Have I told you that already? I meant to, when I saw you last. It keeps me amused through the day, imagining these letters to you — Lady Mary said such-and-such to Lady Edith, which sent her off half in tears, and Mrs. Patmore outdid herself with her new treacle tart recipe (I wasn't here to try it the first time she made it, but I took a second helping this time around to make up for it!), and such. There's loads more, but most of it flies out of my head once I set my pen down on paper, I'm afraid. Which may be a blessing for you, now that I think about it, since I can't imagine you'd be riveted by the color of Lady Mary's new hat and how many banners they've put up at the village for the wedding.

What a relief it is, to be able to write you letters like this and know where you are — when Vera dragged you away from here years ago, I thought you had gone from my life forever, you remember. I had no way of reaching you then — no way of even knowing if you were still alive. At least now I know you cannot run away from me again, at least for the foreseeable future, without incurring the wrath of the Crown. I count myself very lucky in that regard. Not many women could say the same for their husbands.

I forgot to mention, we've a new footman now, since Th. (Mr. Barrow, I mean — how horrid) has managed somehow to wheedle his way into your old job. And can you believe it, the new footman — his name is Alfred — is O'B's nephew! She must have used the extraordinary hold she has over — But I forget myself — your letter will be opened and read by someone at the prison, so I mustn't say too much until I see you again — a fortnight has never passed so slowly!

Alfred is a young veteran, fresh from serving as a waiter at a hotel, but I'm afraid none of that amounts to much in Mr. Carson's eyes when considering his unfortunate family relations. He is the tallest fellow I have ever laid eyes on, I believe, though without the charm, wit, and pleasing countenance of the man I love — I'm talking about Molesley here, of course.

I should stop teasing you, but I get such a kick out of it I can't seem to stop. By the way, did I ever tell you Gwen briefly entertained fond thoughts of you? I was quick to nip that in the bud, mind — the army of fawning admirers I've had to fight off for you! You shall never know my pain.

As ever, I am your faithful

Anna


	2. John - My Dearest Anna

**A/N: **Thank you for ALL the feedback! I appreciate every single one. Bates was very hard to nail down, so again, I invite all your opinions!**  
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**A note on Anna's modern/casual vernacular: Part of it _was_ intentional, as Anna is an uneducated maid of the 1910's (a surprisingly modern time, especially in language), living a hectic life and dashing off a quick note in the few minutes she steals from her night sleep. So I tried not to emulate letters of the well-educated of the 18th century or the literary letters of Mr. Darcy. You'll notice that Bates, who has more time and is better read, writes quite differently. But also, I simply don't have the skills and knowledge to master the proper vernacular - and I apologize for it being a distraction! I'll continue to try my best at balancing all the considerations.  
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My Dearest Anna,

You really might start calling me John, now that we are properly married. I meant to mention this to you in person, but we've both had other things to occupy us.

I am thoroughly touched to hear Isis has been so concerned on my behalf, although I suspect you have mistaken her signs of hunger for symptoms of sadness, an easy enough error to make when concerning a dog. As for the rest of the household, I send my regards to everyone in return, though to be honest there is really just the one person I long to see in particular. How fortunate for me, then, that I count on seeing her as early as next Tuesday.

You say you daily compose letters to me in your mind, but here my chief occupation is to converse with you in mine. I picture you laughing at a jest I might utter, or more often providing a quip of your own in reply, and I try to guess at what you might think of our daily feast of stale bread and whatever slop they manage to throw together. Don't worry, it's not quite so bad, and I know I have been spoilt by Mrs. Patmore's cooking. They sometimes have us mending bags, jackets, and the like, and it is all too easy an endeavor to imagine myself prattling on with you over such tasks as we used to. I've had to check myself from speaking aloud, so real you seem to me at times. I overheard a fellow declare it necessary to lose one's mind a little to preserve the rest in here, which I fear may be true, but I wonder if there could be a more pleasant way of going mad than to feel your presence with me at all times. It seems a small price to pay for your company, in any case, and it will have to do until I can see you again.

Leaving you at Downton all those years ago was a stupid, foolish thing for me to do, and I freely admit it. But I still can't see what else I might have done. In any case, God knows I suffered enough for it, though I'm more sorry I caused you so much pain. I assure you I cannot survive another attempt at leaving you, however worthy the cause, as I've become too selfish to ever let you go willingly. I suppose my having wedded you even with the looming danger of the gallows was proof enough of that, if you required any.

As for O'Brien bringing her nephew to the house, I can only assume she and Thomas are thus planning a slow but inevitable conquest of Downton Abbey in my absence. Pity they did not serve under Napoleon, or he might have succeeded in conquering Russia with the aid of one of their endless schemes. What sort of a fellow is Alfred, exactly? I can't help but be curious. Is he as disagreeable as his aunt, a pinched sort of fellow conniving and thieving with her and Thomas? Or is he a likable man, livening up the conversations downstairs? I'm not sure which I fear more. If only you knew how many potential suitors I have had to fend off, what with my lame leg and all, before you got a whiff of them! But I shall carry the details with me to my grave, as it would not do to have you mourn the young beaus you might have snatched up if it hadn't been for your grumpy old bear of a husband.

There isn't much news to report from my end, as you might imagine, and in fact I have been thinking to the past a lot, much of it about you. I would say more, but I am loathe to make the prison warden blush. But know that you are with me always —

Yours,

John


	3. Anna - My Dear Grumpy Old Bear

**A/N: Thank you so much for your responses! It's such a relief to know I did Bates justice, and I'll incorporate your feedback in future letters.****  
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******Anna's in a playful mood today - it won't always be the case, though.******

**The letters so far take place in early 03x01, after the first prison visit (Anna gives him Vera's book) but before the second. Anna visits Bates every fortnight (2 weeks) and writes every 2-4 days or so. I'll drop hints in the letters (Mrs. Patmore's treacle tart, Alfred's arrival, etc.) and mention episode transitions or time skips through Author's Notes.**

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My dear Grumpy Old Bear,

I'm sorry, but I was so tickled by the name you gave yourself I couldn't help it. I'm rather partial to comparing you to a bulldog myself — stubborn, and endearing with all its wrinkles, if you don't mind me having a go at your age. Or perhaps it's something about your chin, and the general set of your face. (I know I'm being cheeky, but it's because you aren't here to give me a smack for it. It makes me feel braver, you see.) But I find myself rather taken with the thought of you as a large bear, with your squarish body, large paws, and brown fur — hair, I should say, though in your case there may be little distinction between the two. What animal do I best resemble, do you think? A squirrel perhaps, or a dormouse, scurrying about the kitchen floor. I imagine they would provide the liveliest of conversations, if one could hear them talk. Besides, I rather think I'd make a fetching squirrel, don't you?

As for your request to call you John — it sounds positively foreign to me, after calling you Mr. Bates all this time! But as I am ever your utterly meek and obedient wife, I shall make a practice out of it until it comes out natural. I should have you suffer in return and address me by some strange pet name, really — but I shall be merciful and permit you to call me "Anna" as you always do, since I derive too much pleasure in hearing you say it.

By the by, I don't give a rat's tail about making the prison warden blush — nor should we! We're a married couple, you and I, and you mustn't neglect your poor wife's sensibilities to serve a stranger's — especially when we're so cruelly barred from each other in almost every other way. Monks and nuns in cloisters have it easier than we, I'm tempted to say. (Old Travis would have a heart attack if he heard me talk so.) And I'm ever so glad to hear you've resigned yourself to be "selfish," as you call it, as it relieves me of a great weight. One more of your noble acts, and I might perish.

Alfred is a very pleasant, young man, and very eager to please. Have I unnerved you with my choice of words? Not to be afraid — he is a redhead, and I only fancy dark-haired men resembling woodland critters. Anyway, Alfred's actually caused quite a rift between his aunt and Th. — we the rest of us are quite astonished. Th. has has been his usual dreadful self, playing nasty tricks on Alfred, but O'B won't stand for it. Even her blood runs thick in her veins, I suppose.

I'm rather exhausted tonight — I half wish Lady Mary were as disposed as Lady Sybil to eloping, and save us the trouble — and so I will bid you good night, even if I haven't said half of what I meant to.

With much love from your darling

Squirrel


	4. John - To My Cheeky Wife

**A/N: Sorry for the delay! The website was not cooperating, and then I went on a 4-day trip. It's funny that Bates also apologizes for his delayed letter.**

**The robin story Bates tells here is an Irish folk tale, one I imagine his mother once told him. ("Appreciate my all-too-intensive research on British wildlife and their literary significance!" cries the fanfiction author. ...I _am_ rather sad that 95% of my research didn't make it in.) And as always, I enthusiastically welcome your feedback! Enjoy!  
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To my cheeky wife,

You are without a doubt the most insolent and teasing creature I have ever encountered. I've long wondered how Lady Mary came to possess such a cutting tongue, but now I know it to be entirely your doing. Were I with you in person, I would not know whether to give you a pinch or a kiss. What I do know, however, is that I would have it no other way. Your letters are a miracle cure for a man's melancholia. Dr. Clarkson would do well to keep a sample of them in his medicine closet were I inclined to share my treasure trove, which I am not. Even here, I jealously guard against allowing my charming cellmate a single glimpse of your written hand.

You may of course address me by any name you desire. Though since you are never in need of my permission, I suppose I'm merely expressing my capitulation to your wishes on the matter. I am, as ever, utterly at the mercy of Mrs. Bates, who always manages to have her way with me.

Have you had the opportunity to thank Lady Mary for her generous wedding present? It was a precious jewel, you may recall, and I find myself continually hearkening back to its beauty in my memory. I hesitate to ask you to convey my express gratitude to her, but I hope she knows what a pleasant and unforgettable delight it was, and how beholden we are to her for it.

I hope I have not worried you by failing to reply as swiftly as is my custom. I assure you, it was all in service of composing this letter. You meant it lightly, but I have been contemplating the question of your animal equivalent, and nothing else, for the past two days. Shall I trace for you the train of my thoughts, to compensate for my delay?

You are neither like a squirrel nor a mouse, as they are nervous creatures, and easily frightened, while you have the heart and constitution of a lioness. I had not the pleasure of encountering one while in South Africa, but I did learn there that lionesses are the ones to stalk and hunt the prey, while the male slumbers lazily and evidently does nothing of use. I thought it a fitting comparison, in light of your tireless efforts in the affair we have agreed to not write on, and my languishing in a prison in the meantime.

But I think you would have had wings, had you not settled on earth as a human.

At first I considered a common sparrow or a pigeon, but you are far too good, witty, and precious for either. A blackbird, perhaps, as they can be as plucky as your spirit — but no, you are far too bright and beautiful. A butterfly is too fragile, and a hawk or falcon too savage. You may be surprised, though I hope not displeased, to know that I finally settled upon a robin as your animal twin.

I have always harboured a fondness for the bird since childhood. They were a constant presence in my mother's garden, where I would frequently take refuge from my father. I don't mind telling you that he was often an angry man, vexed with the world for forsaking him. You've accused me of being too quick to surrender, but I grew up believing that the only other alternative was resentment and anger. It's only thanks to you that I have learned of a third option: to fight, and to hope.

A robin is a brazen little creature, much like you, fearless of the human hand, and in fact it will gladly keep one company with its warbling songs as one putters about in the garden. I hear faint traces of their calls even in here, during our prescribed daily stroll about the courtyard, and henceforth I suppose they will provide me with a peculiar comfort of my own, as I think of you and the arrival of your next letter. We used to call the postman a Robin in my younger days, too, now that I think about it.

Have you heard the tale of how the robin came to have its red breast? I heard it told as a story once upon a time, that a father and a son, weary from travel, stopped to light a fire and fell into a deep sleep. As the fire began to die, a hungry wolf approached them, but a robin flew to the fire and flapped its wings to revive the flames. The fire scorched its chest red, but it persisted, thus repelling the wolf and saving the two lives. It's too easy an exercise to imagine you as that robin, since I have met no equal in your kindness towards others and selfless sacrifice for my sake. You are my own saviour in every possible way.

What a funny picture it makes in my head, a clumsy bear and his spry robin bird. Yet it's a vision I hope you are taken with, as I am. At the very least, I hope I have kept you entertained with my exceedingly lengthy dissertation on this entirely frivolous matter. If I have failed you in this regard, I freely give you permission to consult your new friend Alfred in keeping you amused.

Your adoring husband,

Grumpy Bear


	5. Anna - My Dear Grumpy Bear John

**A/N: Sorry for the slower pace of updates! I've run out of rough drafts, and my own pace of life has sped up recently, so updates may start being more sporadic and less refined/revised. (Btw, if anyone wants to be my editor...) Reviews and ideas are always welcome!  
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**Anna has been feeling a bit under the weather. It hits most of us sometimes, often unexpectedly. But I do miss the gaiety of her previous letters, so I expect to go back to that soon.**

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My Dear Grumpy Bear John,

You see I'm inching closer to the day I can call you simply "John," so be patient.

Your calling me insolent and teasing — you've hardly the right to say so, as you are positively wicked! I certainly will not be passing on such a message to Lady Mary — though I think we the two of us would have a good laugh over your cheekiness. As for the jewel you mentioned, I've been keeping it under lock and key, where it will safely remain until your return.

You've charmed me into believing it high praise when I am compared to a little garden bird — I suppose I will always see robins as kindred spirits now. You're quite a romantic at heart, Mr. Bates. But you must betray that secret to no one but your wife, for I've heard she is quite protective of you. And I will happily embrace the role of a chirping robin, keeping its dear grumpy old bear lively company. What a funny pair we certainly are!

Have you heard? Lady Sybil and Branson have returned to Downton. (I can't quite settle on how to address him — I will keep with "Branson" with you, if you'll promise not to tell.) They both seem well — I know you've quite a soft spot for B, with your shared Irish blood — but they've been causing quite a fuss at the house. There's been a bit of an intrigue about who sent them the fare for traveling, as apparently it wasn't Lord Grantham, and of course Mr. C is put off by everything B says and does. I wish you were here to help us smooth his feathers — though heaven knows Mrs. H is trying her best. B asks after you — everyone is concerned, I hope you know that. (Except Th, who is grumpy at having to look after Mr. Matthew. He simply can't stay happy for long, it seems.)

By the way, I think we should promise to be very honest with one other — even when we'd rather not. Course I don't believe we've been dishonest — you and I have been as frank with each other as we know how to be, I fancy. What I mean to say is that we shouldn't always put on such a brave front. For you see, I've been wretched today. When Lady S. and B. arrived this morning, everyone was in such a fever about the chauffeur returning as the husband of an earl's daughter — but all I could think of was how happy they are, and together. And there's Lady Mary, with her grand wedding mere weeks away, and even Lady Edith has a suitor — and all I can see are their happy faces, with their men, and then I read your letter this morning — it took longer than usual to arrive and I was so impatient to read it I couldn't wait until the afternoon, as I usually do — and almost wept right then, because it showed me what a wonderful, loving husband I have, one I wouldn't trade for all the charming Irishmen, heirs, and lords of the world. But you are so far away, and I miss you such a great deal, it's impossible to know how to cope. I envy Lady Mary neither her grand wedding nor her blond fiancé (as you recall, I fancy dark haired men), but today I felt keenly that I would trade anything for her happiness.

I haven't been as cheery as I should be, and as I usually am — but I think it'll pass, as it always does. I fancy the morning will make all of this seem rather silly and weepy, but I'm so unhappy at this moment that I had to share with someone, or burst — and no one could understand me better than you. No one ever has. I hate to think of how my letter might bring you misery, but if we suffer, I think you and I need to suffer together, and comfort each other, and not let each other be alone — even knowing you will read these words makes me feel a little more at ease.

Tonight I miss you so enormously — and am so full of love and affection — that I can't think of a single parting tease to throw your way. I suppose I will have to give your ego a doubly sound beating in my next letter.

Think of your lonely and pining

Little Robin

P.S. I'm sorry to hear about your father — but at least I know your mother was a lovely woman who loved you dearly.


	6. Anna - My Dear Suffering Husband

**A/N: I just couldn't shake off the feeling that Anna would've felt compelled to write a note like this, so it had to be written. Sorry for the short update! I'll work on Bates's reply ASAP.  
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****Bates will receive this and the last letter from Anna _after _her visit, which is the one in 03x01 where Bates passes on his notes on Vera's contacts to Anna for her to write letters to.  
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****EDIT: Wait, I'm such an idiot and forgot to say: Huge thanks to Lorien and AGT for offering to be my editors and giving my draft a once-over! Gave me such an ease of mind. =)****

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My Dear Suffering Husband,

I heard birds chirping outside this morning and wondered if any of them were a robin — and then I realized, to my horror, that I have not the least idea what my animal counterpart sounds like! I must investigate this urgent matter immediately — perhaps I will ask you to demonstrate their call when I see you. At the very least, it will provide me with some amusement. (Your dignity is but a trifling sacrifice in exchange.)

Anyway, would you believe that one night of sleep really has made all the difference? When I awoke this morning, I felt little of the anguish of our separation, but all the thrill of knowing I will be seeing you later today. I had half a mind to tear up the tale of woe I spun last night — there you are, in a prison cell with no friends or family, and here I am, being silly and selfish, griping while surrounded by our friends and all the excitement of life at Downton. But it would be a disservice to both of us, I believe, because I meant what I said, about being honest with each other — and besides, I hate to deprive you of a letter and force you to make polite conversation with your lovely cellmate. So I attach this brief note, scribbled in our courtyard in the few minutes before breakfast, to tell you your wife is feeling much better now and is so very sorry for possibly causing you distress with her bout of gloom. She will pay all due penance as you demand of her. (You must take this rare opportunity very seriously, now, and ponder carefully what you would have your wife do.)

To think in a few hours I will be facing you in person! I can hardly wait.

Accept a thousand kisses from your repenting

Anna


	7. John - My Dear, Precious Little Robin

**A/N: Huge thanks to Lorien (Gelana78) and AGT (Awesomegreentie) for being my editors and such big help! **

**OK, this letter is a bit sentimental, but I felt like doing anything else would feel out of character here. Feedback of all kinds is appreciated, via PM or reviews, as they greatly help me in crafting subsequent letters. Also, I wanted to very sincerely thank everyone who's been reading and enjoying these letters. Just the thought of having readers makes all the agony of writing worthwhile, no?  
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My Dear, Precious Little Robin,

How I yearn to be with you at this very moment so that I might ease your pain, particularly as I very well know that I am at the source of it. You must never apologise for your honesty. Our very own marriage, and all that has been good and happy in my life for the past eight years, owe the entirety of their existence to your courage and candour. I shall never forget the day we walked to the village flower show for the first time, and the way you regarded me, impatient and with such spirit, as you informed me that you loved me, the man who had neither the strength to accept nor reject you outright. How I felt keenly in that moment that I was inferior and inadequate to you in every way possible, and yet I feared my heart would burst from utter adoration of you. Your bold words at Kirbymoorside, too, still ring in my ears as I lie awake at night, wondering what might have been had I been so brash as to accept your offer. Where I have been cowardly and weak, you have always been brave and strong, as you are even now. I only grieve that your letters arrived after your visit, for I wish I could have comforted you in person. Instead we talked of the London affair, and other trivial matters. Now I suppose I must write you the most thorough yet swift response I can manage, so that you might have this small substitute for my company without delay.

Never trouble yourself over sparing me any grief. This grumpy bear can and will bear it all on his old shoulders, along with anything else you might ever throw at him. The only thing I could not endure is to be without any word from you. You are right, as you always are, in that we must comfort each other and understand each other. There is truly great consolation in knowing that there is someone outside these walls who longs for me as much as I ache for her. Solitude in its purest form is a demonising terror, one that creates a monster out of us, but we have each other and need never feel the full force of it now. I am not an optimist by nature, but I am exceedingly thankful for you every day of my life.

In the spirit of bold divulgence, shall I share with you my latest method of keeping my mind occupied, to dull the agony of your absence? I fear you may think me truly mad, but as I've said, my sanity is but a small price to pay for any semblance of your company, in whatever form it may take.

Do you remember the future we dreamt of together, a long time ago? We would have sold my mother's house, bought a small hotel near Downton, and worked there with our children. I never quite revealed to you, largely out of embarrassment, the extent to which I had already contemplated almost every exact particular of the plan, from the size and colour of our rooms to the lovely features of our children. Though it was absurd to plan such minute details, I could not seem to help it then. Even now I am ashamed to admit it, and I can only confess it now because writing makes my words flow more freely than they do in speech.

I have lately found myself returning to imagining how our lives could have been, had it all come to pass, and building upon that foolish old dream of mine. But you must understand that I don't mourn what could have been. Life here can be so dull, tedious, and grey that anything I choose to imagine in my mind seems more real to me than these cold stone walls. Our hotel is thus an alternate world I escape to in my mind, to find refuge and comfort in my restless nights. After all, it does no one any harm. I have but simply to close my eyes to see the two of us, for example, gathered around the fireplace on a wintry night, polishing our shoes and chatting about our latest guests, as our children slumber nearby. You might yawn as the clock strikes midnight, and I might then compel you to go off to bed with a kiss, while I dally for a few minutes to quietly steal your coat out of the closet and mend the tear you have been meaning to tend to. Then, as I finally slip into our bed, I might slide a little trinket, a cheap, pretty bauble that caught my fancy in a store window, under your pillow as I gently tuck you into my arms and fall into a deep slumber.

And thus, you are now privy to the darkest and most guarded of secrets: John Bates, the enigmatic and stoic man, is a damned silly fool whose thoughts are entirely occupied by fantasies and sentiment that would put any romantic novelist to shame. But as you say, my dignity is of no great importance. I have found great comfort in my imaginary exercise, and so you might as well, if you would like to keep me company in our own little world. I invite you to name our son and daughter, for one, as I have not the least bit of confidence in myself in carrying off such a monumental task, though I know they both have your eyes and your beautiful smile.

A thousand and one kisses from your soppy husband,

John


	8. Anna - Dearest John

**A/N: We're still in 03x01. My tentative plan is to do a big time jump/skip sometime soon, or we'll never get to 03x04... Huge thanks to awesomegreentie for her edits and insights, and thank you to the readers for all the ideas, comments, suggestions, and other feedback!  
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Dearest John,

Indeed you are a silly beggar — don't you know women love to see that their husband is even more of a sap than them? Or perhaps it's only me. I suppose I should have suspected it when you dived into such details as soon as I mentioned your mother's house after your first so-called proposal. As for your being an "enigmatic" man — your unlettered wife had to pry Lady Mary for its meaning — I dare say you aren't half as much one as you believe. You might guard your secrets carefully, Mr. Bates (John, I mean), but I saw who you were at first glance — a good, kind man with a full heart, and too much honour for his own good. You revealed yourself as an incurable romantic, too, the moment you handed me that beautiful tray of food years ago. I'm still quite tickled at the thought of you puttering about the kitchen and grounds, gathering food and flowers while avoiding O'Brien's sharp eyes, and carrying it all up those stairs, without your cane — I couldn't find more dedicated service at a fine London hotel, I believe. My favourite scent has been a lavender's ever since — or my second favourite, I should say, for the first is that of you. (Will I make the warden faint with such words? I hope I've made you blush in the presence of your lovely cellmate.) Though you know, I was too sick then to smell the flowers you brought me, which you clearly overlooked — you can be rather daft sometimes — but I've made up for it by sniffing at every lavender I've seen since then.

You'd never demand anything of me, but I said I'd pay penance for my grousing, so I'll give naming our children a go, though I suspect you have a livelier imagination than I. (By the by, you may be quite fixed on having two, but I haven't yet agreed to anything of the sort — especially as I would be doing most of the labour.) I think Helen or Mary would do nicely for a girl, though I also have a fondness for Amy. As for the boy, we might name him William, or have another John in the family — and call him little Jack, perhaps. (And now I'm beginning to see the charm of your little imagination game!)

Last night, Lady Edith said everyone shouldn't be so vexed about her age difference with Sir S., since you and I are happy together. What do you think of that? I bit back a cheeky retort — I'm six years her senior, for one, and you are much younger than her suitor in every way, so I hardly think we warrant the comparison.

But Sir S. is a very nice man, and I do like him. He saved Branson from a great embarrassment last night, when Larry Grey — you wouldn't know him, but he's an old friend of the ladies and horrid, as you'll see — pulled a cruel prank on Branson by putting something awful in his drink that made him act very wild, and Sir S. was the one to call it to attention. (I don't mind saying it openly, because it was a beastly act and I don't care who knows it.) Anyway, Mr. Matthew then announced Branson will be his best man, which stirred everything up, and Lady Mary was very proud of him — and wouldn't stop saying so to me.

I've come to realise we're very fortunate, in a way — how many have the chance to write and receive such letters as we do? I feel positively blessed when I look at the growing stack of your letters, every single one of them full of an affection I think some go their entire lives without. And one does say things in letters we'd never say aloud — you might never have confessed to me about your hotel dream otherwise, nor what you thought at the flower show, and about your childhood — and really you do say the sweetest things, you know, that I can hold onto and revisit, again and again. And no, I'm not forcing myself to be cheerful — I really do feel this very keenly. True, I would chuck it all away for a kiss from you, but you see I would at least do it with a drop of reluctance.

I'll go to bed tonight thinking of the hotel — I fancy I'll see you there. I demand to know every detail you have fantasised, including the colours of our rooms, so that I might see everything precisely when I enter this world of yours. And write to me of your childhood — and everything else I love to hear. Suddenly it seems we have loads to talk about!

Indulge your curious and loving

Little Robin


	9. John - To My Curious Little Robin

**A/N: I owe so much to awesomegreentie, as always, for her keen, thoughtful feedback. Also, thanks to bugs for giving me a nudge. If anyone ever feels the urge to push me in the future, please do - I need the extra motivation without real deadlines to work for. (And Bates is always so hard for me to write...)**

**As for the letter, I swear I didn't mean to actually think of a backstory for Bates. But it happened! I don't know how my own writing gets so out of control...  
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To my curious little robin,

Certainly you have always managed to read me like an open book, but I would attribute that more to your keen instincts in reading people than my vivacious, candid nature. In any case, I will dedicate the remainder of this letter to indulging your wishes by relating my childhood and the hotel to you.

I couldn't detail my childhood faithfully without mentioning the man I called my father. He was a police constable, one wholly unfit for the job in both appearance and temper. He was a small, irritable man who abused his power over others, especially as he felt his self-control slipping away. And yet, knowing no better, I long thought him a perfectly normal father and husband, assuming it typical to have one's father stumbling home at night, reeking of whiskey and prepared to blast the world apart by the sheer force of his exasperation with it. Looking back, while they feared my father too greatly to complain, I believe our neighbours shunned us for it. I bore the solitude well. Reading was my habit and reticence my nature, though my mother would have told you I managed to find my fair share of mischief. But whereas I had the company of my books and thoughts, my mother must have suffered terribly, for she had nothing but her duties as a mother and wife. My father was eventually discharged for his disorderly conduct, and he soon afterwards met his end, apparently by his own hand. By then I believed him to be such a devil that I could not fully believe he was truly dead, and I long suffered nightmares of him, a vile spirit stalking about the dark streets of London and committing the Jack the Ripper murders.

I doubt you know the abject horror and disgust that engulfs one's entire being at realising one has become the very thing he has always despised. Such was my life when my wounded leg and pride plunged me into my own darkness years later. But don't pity me, Anna. I only regret my first, and foolish, marriage — the rest I could never regret, for through it all I found my way to you. You would trade all my letters for a single kiss, but I would happily relive the black years of my life for the same prize. If only I had the option.

I very much like all the names you mentioned, and I am delighted you have found pleasure in my imagination game. I presume Mary and William are taken from our mutual acquaintance (or perhaps you have a preference for royalty*), and Helen I think was the name of your mother, whom I of course have never met but have the greatest respect for. In any case, I will leave it to you to make the final decisions on the names. Alternatively, we could make use of every name you suggest, as I would be only too delighted to have five children running about our hotel. It was only out of consideration for your unfairly heavy share of the burden that I very reluctantly reduced the number to two. At the very least, I am stubbornly set on a daughter born in your image.

As for the hotel, at the moment located in Ripon, it would be a small 8 to 10-room affair, modest in size and decor, and assiduously run under our mutual direction. You would be Mrs. Bates, naturally, to everyone but myself. There would be a separate sitting room for the guests, as well as a dining room for daily servings of breakfast and dinner, cooked up by our equivalent of Mrs. Patmore. Selfishly, we will have chosen to occupy the best bedroom, located at the back of the building and overlooking our small walled garden. Each morning, I am the first to wake and draw the curtains, welcoming the sunlight as it streams in warmly and eases you out of your sleep, as I know you're not one to rise willingly and naturally. We have taken a small but cozy sitting room for ourselves, and we have one bedroom reserved for the children. I could not tell you what precise colours decorate our walls, but they must be light in hue, if not altogether white. The London house, as you may recall, is dark and dismal, and I constantly dreamt of a bright, sunny house as a child. Even the spaces we servants occupied at the Abbey were dimly lit. Here I see precious little of anything natural in origin, much less the sun, and I find myself craving an experience as simple as a walk through Downton's bright fields of spring.

I have forgotten an important detail for our sitting room: I have allowed myself the single indulgence of a bookcase, full of my own volumes. If you're so inclined, my current modest collection is at your disposal. I think you might enjoy my volume on Greek mythology, an old favourite of mine. I liken myself to the lame god Hephaestus, wed to the beautiful Aphrodite.

In the meantime, I am content with the single volume of your letters, the contents of which I must have memorised, as I have pored over every word written in your precious hand countless times. Believe me, I am in need of no reminder that your letters are a matchless treasure, easily worth more to me than the entire British Empire, and the singular source of my sustenance. I may be a fool in thinking so, but sometimes I believe no man could ever have felt as deeply as I do for you.

With the warmest possible gratitude, love, and devotion,

Your Grumpy Old Bear

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_*NOTE: A reference to William and Mary, the co-reigning king and queen of Britain in the late 17th century._


	10. Anna - Dear Mr Impertinence

**A/N: I think the number of people who tell me "I know you say writing Bates is hard…" is a sign that I should stop whining about it every time I write for Bates. Haha. Sorry, I can be such a broken record sometimes.**

**By the way, I hope everyone's been enjoying a little game of "Spot the Downton References" throughout these letters! They range from the obvious to obscure. **

**EDIT: THANK YOU to Awesomegreentie for taking the time out of her busy life to be my beta reader! Even if I forget to write this in the A/N like the ungrateful little JERK I am, this should go without saying.  
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Dear Mr. Impertinence,

You may think it flattering for a woman to hear herself declared equal to the Goddess of Beauty and Love (you see I've glanced through your book), but really it only makes her feel burdened with absurd expectations. A woman likes to know she is loved despite her faults, you know — or at least I do, for I won't pretend to speak for half the human race. As for Aphrodite, I don't understand why she left a perfectly good husband for Ares, who sounds ghastly. Imagine — the God of War, clanging about with his armour and battle cries, and always on about his feats of gore and death. What a bore! I would much prefer the blacksmith who makes himself useful and has a much more agreeable nature. I think you meant to be hard on yourself when you called yourself Hephaestus, but really he's more likeable and human than the other gods, drunk on their power and glory.

Though I must confess — I haven't read much of your book, since the wedding is very near upon us now, and it was mostly Lady Mary who told me about the gods. I hope you don't mind — I was so curious about what you said that I made a little inquiry about Hephaestus to the young ladies. Lady Sybil thinks all the gods and goddesses are rather "conceited," actually, and that the humans, beasts, and demigods are far better for finding one's counterparts. Lady Mary then said she's learnt her lesson in comparing people to Greek heroes, and thinks she'll stick to English novels for now. I didn't tell them about our little bear-robin joke, since I want to keep it between ourselves, unless of course you've gone and blathered it to your inmates — I know what a social gab you are!

I do feel a bit guilty for teasing you so often. I think you should try and tease me as well, so I can continue making fun of you with a light conscience. (I couldn't give up such a favourite hobby, so I'm afraid it's the only solution.)

But really, John, the man you are now is nothing like the father you remember — I'm sure of it. You are kind where he was cruel, brave where he was cowardly, worldly where he was ignorant, and loving where he was full of hate. And you possess the control he never had. Besides, we all have our dark chapters. (What is it that His Lordship said in the library all those years ago, when Mr. C's old friend came visiting?) There mightn't be many with a past such as yours, but I wager even fewer have emerged ever the stronger and better for it, as you have. You are an uncommonly strong and honourable man, John Bates — the very picture of a big bear, or the blacksmith of Mt. Olympus.

I'm curious, though — what sorts of mischief did you get into as a child? I can tell you never had a little sibling, at least, since you seem to think nothing of five children — you wouldn't have a moment to think for yourself, you know, much less enjoy your bookcase! I had two such little monsters in my family — what perfect beasts they were, always running and knocking things about and causing a fuss. (Still, I missed them in my first few years away from home.) Anyway, I daresay Amy and little Jack will suffice for us.

You've decorated our little dream hotel — I think I'll try and give it some life. Let's see — our cook is Mrs. Blackwell, generally very reliable and diligent, but she does on occasion get into a spot of trouble when she's taken too many liberties in experimenting with her dishes. But that's all right — she's got an old, ailing mother, and we pity and like her far too much to ever dismiss her. Then there's Therese, the young maid who helps me prepare the rooms and such — she's rather like a mix of Daisy and Gwen — and Mr. Roy Whitaker, a gentle, pleasant young man who helps serve the meals and tends to the guests' bags, and the like. Perhaps he's got a way with horses (and now he's beginning to resemble our poor, dear William), so he can serve as our groom when need be.

That's a nice, cheery little crew, don't you think? I don't know anything about hotels, really, so I've made it all up as I like. I think Mr. Whitaker could entertain us all with a ghost story on a dark, stormy night like tonight — can you hear the rain and thunder? It's pouring frightful at the moment — and there's a knock at the door, scaring the children half to death — but really, it's just a poor, miserable traveler, seeking one night's shelter.

What do you make of my additions? I'm chuffed to bits at it, myself — I've been laughing as I wrote it. It seems so silly yet so delightful to me, and I'm curious to see what you'll think of it. Oh, and I'm sorry I haven't written as often as I'd want — I've been stealing precious moments here and there over the past few days. (At least it's longer than usual!) There's no rest for the wicked, as Mrs. H says, though I don't believe it, as Th. and O'B are having the easiest time of it.

Your non-Greek, non-immortal, and very tired

Mrs. Bates


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